


Netflix and Chill

by ljs



Category: Babylon (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5026177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set some time after the (first) series.<br/><i>“So, Finn. You want to Netflix and chill tonight?” Liz says, as she pushes her desk chair to swivel one way, then another. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Netflix and Chill

“So, Finn. You want to Netflix and chill tonight?” Liz says, as she pushes her desk chair to swivel one way, then another.

There is silence. Not even a distant phone, no noise from outside the glass. Just Finn on the other side of her desk, staring unblinking at her.

“Finn, Jesus, you look like a fucking lizard,” she says, and oh for God’s sake, it comes out affectionate. “Not a difficult question. Do you want to come over to my place, or not?”

Now he blinks. Repeatedly.

And, yeah, it’s a Friday evening after a hellish week of spinning the latest fuckup of the Met’s finest, and yeah, it’s been three days since their fourth round of hate-sex, all of which have been work-related, and yeah, she’s probably just being self-destructive _again_. He’s an asshole, after all. He’s nominally a subordinate (although with his pull with Charles, not so much anymore in fact). He’s _really_ an asshole, has she told herself that enough?

But she now also knows his hair is soft underneath all that product, his mouth is soft and sweet under all that bluster and gum-chewing and bullshit, he smells surprisingly great, and he fucks like someone out of her filthiest, most secret dreams. God, that last round, hot and fast against the mirrors in the elevator after a six-hour-long argument about tactics to hang a goddamn _Daily Fail_ weasel who’d insinuated the force had meant to screw up the latest round of unrest in Hoxton…

(After she’d come that night, gasping against his now lipsticked white collar, she’d said in her post-coital delirium, “Now I’ll never look at this fucking elevator the same way.” He’d said in her ear, his voice deep and sex-exhausted and rumbly, “It’s a fucking lift, Liz. You’re in England now.” Which was just like him, the dick, and never mind that she’d had another little flutter of pleasure at the way he’d used that voice as a weapon. She’d so enjoyed torturing him the next day in morning conference with Sharon by murmuring “lift” just when he hit his scumbag-righteous peroration, and he’d completely lost his train of thought. Unfortunately then he’d done the same thing to her in afternoon conference with Charles, purring “elevator” under his breath and then tracing his index and middle fingers along her thigh underneath the table just as he’d done in the elevator, lift, what the fuck ever, and she’d totally lost her point in the ongoing argument. He is an _asshole_. But really, really good with his hands once he gets going.)

“You want me to come over and watch a movie at your place?” he asks, cautiously.

Of course the fucking Luddite doesn’t know what ‘Netflix and chill’ means, she thinks. But hey, they can work that out later. “Yep,” she says, and gives her desk chair one more swivel.

“What kind of movie?”

“Does it even fucking matter, Finn? Don’t if you don’t want to, for God’s sake.”

He is still staring at her. He bites his lip – so horribly sexy, it’s just not her fault she can’t keep away – and then says, “You want me to bring something?”

“Condoms and whatever you want to drink,” she says, and spins her desk chair all the way around. When she gets back to her starting place, his stare has turned into a glare. She loves when that happens.  
……………………………………………..

They don’t leave together. This is partially a perfunctory nod to office decorum, and mostly because she suddenly can’t remember if she’s put away her laundry or erased all traces of that goddamn Granger from her flat. She leaves first, waving through the glass walls at him perched at his desk like the horrifyingly hot vulture he is.

It’s dark when she leaves the building, and London smells of diesel and cold. The city’s not like she imagined when she was young, tucked up with English literature and burgeoning ideals: no hansom cabs like in Sherlock Holmes stories, no time for afternoon tea or aristocratic floppy-haired boys, the centuries-old buildings a little battered in the move to modernity. She kind of likes it better this way, without the glamour. It’s real.

What is also real, she realizes as soon as she walks into her flat, is that she needs a cleaning service, like, yesterday, and her flat is kind of cold. Also her television is a problem, because fuck Sky and Rupert Murdoch, which is going to make this a little awkward.

Or, maybe not. She’s a PR goddess, after all. She can spin this.

So when Finn shows up forty minutes later, wine in hand, his tie in the pocket of his coat, and suspicion in his eyes, she greets him with wet hair, bare feet, and the smile of a woman who’s just swept a fuckton of feminine debris into the trash chute and the closet. “What’d you bring us?” she says, and pulls him in.

“Oh, was I supposed to bring enough for you?” he says, and lets himself be taken.  
……………………………………

Pizza is ordered, and arrives in the middle of their argument about what to watch. (He wants to watch a _documentary_. If she needs any more evidence that he is a gigantic fucking nerd, which she doesn’t, she need look no further.) She tells him he will a) enjoy a margherita pizza without meat and with mushrooms, stop being such a goddamn stereotypical boy about it, and b) watch what she wants him to.

He grumbles, and takes three slices of pizza, and pours himself another glass of the shockingly good California Pinot Noir he brought. “Okay, okay. Couch?”

“Yep,” she says, and boots up her laptop.

His look of disdain when he realizes what she’s doing is priceless Finn. “What, you didn’t pay your fucking bill?”

Accurate, and annoying. To get back at him, she decides not to connect her laptop to the TV – her initial plan – and instead just brings the computer over to the coffee table. “Make room for me,” she orders.

“What the fuck else do I do in my life,” he says, and it sounds like sweet, sweet surrender.

Well, it’s surrender until he realizes – “Goddamn it, Liz, is this the bootleg original version of _Return of the Jedi_?” Then, sarcastic, “You’re aware you’re breaking the law.”

He has no idea of what she might break, bless his two-sizes-too-small heart. So she snuggles into his warmth, steals one of his slices of pizza, and says airily, “I like the original Ewok song at the end.”

“ _You would,_ ” he says, grim, and cracks his neck, and takes his pizza back.  
………………………………..

He gets a little hard when Leia in her slave-bikini appears. Liz tells him that’s appalling. He tells her it’s not the objectification of Carrie Fisher that’s the issue here, and looks pointedly at her hand rubbing his thigh. She grins. He says, “It’s not a compliment.”

“I think it is,” she says, and doesn’t stop.  
…………………………………

“”It’s a trap!’” they chorus at the appropriate time.

And he continues, “Which reminds me, Charles was saying—“

“Shut the fuck up about work,” she says, and slides her hand into his half-opened shirt, and twists his nipple. He glares at her.

“God, I love when you glare at me,” she says, and lays her head on his shoulder. Jesus, that wine is hitting her hard.

“I’ll stop doing it immediately,” he says, and slides one foot between hers. She curls her leg around his. It’s probably a sign of the fucking end of days that she hasn’t felt this comfortable since she landed at Heathrow all those months ago.

She buries her face against him and closes her eyes.  
…………………………………………….

She wakes up when the Ewok song comes on. Finn is right where she’d put him, warm, smelling of wine and oregano, idly petting the crease of her thigh and staring at the laptop. His eyelashes are so long, she thinks. So pretty. It’s awful how many sweet things there are about this cretinous motherfucker.

“Oh, so you’re awake now,” he says without turning his head.

“Couldn’t miss my song,” she says.

Now he does turn his head to look at her. “It’s awful,” he says, in an uncomfortable echo of her thought. “Unconscionably fucking awful. Of course it’s your song.”

But his voice is doing that thing again, that low rumbly sex-thing, and his eyes are on her mouth. So she pulls him to her and assaults his mouth, the way he’s deserved since the first time he started yapping at her. She takes his stupid aggression and his stupid righteousness and his stupid stupidity and consumes it, uses her tongue to dig out more of his hidden sweetness –

He pulls away, just a bit out of reach. “How sober are you?” he says, eyes narrowed.

It’s so, _so_ awful how he won’t let her hide. She won’t be able to disavow this later, she knows. She won’t be able to lie to him, or worse, to herself. She wants him. This is a choice she’s making.

“Sober. Make room for me,” she says, and shoves her hand down his trousers and grabs his already hard cock.

He groans, his gaze still on hers, and says “What the fuck else do I do in my life,” and his fingers find her clit.  
………………………………………………

After they have sex on the couch, he doesn’t carry her to bed. They don’t whisper sweet nothings to each other. There are no confessions of love.

But she asks him to stay over, and he gives a half-shrug and asks for a toothbrush. They argue about who’s the big spoon, and she wins the rock-paper-scissors to be spooned. He falls asleep first, his arm heavy on her waist.

Relaxed, she looks at her windows, at the vast glass expanse of London out there, all lights and cold.

It’s real.


End file.
